


Switching Roles

by Sherlockian_nonsequitur



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, RPF, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_nonsequitur/pseuds/Sherlockian_nonsequitur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict inexplicably wakes up on the set of 221B, but things are different. Una keeps on calling him Sherlock and things aren’t the way they should be. RPF with Benedict Cumberbatch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switching Roles

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 3

Fiery pain shot through every nerve in his body. Raucous banging resounded in his head. He jerked himself awake and rolled over to escape the pain; fear sped through him as he felt himself falling. He landed with a thud onto the ground.

“Nnnngh.” He groaned as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The buzzing in his ears slowly dissipated and the tingling in his nerves began to subside. It was painful, reminding him of the sensation of trying to walk after his foot fell asleep. But this, this is much worse, he thought. He had never before had his entire body fall asleep like this.

He placed his hand on the couch next to him to steady himself. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears. He wondered what could have caused this. It might have been the glass of champagne he drank at the party earlier that day, but that wasn’t enough alcohol to make him react in this way, and neither was it like any hangover he’d ever experienced.

He blinked his eyes to try to clear his vision. The objects around him were blurred, but as the tingling subsided his vision became clearer. He stared at the familiar couch he was leaning against for a moment and tried to remember how he had gotten there. He remembered looking for an empty room when he had gotten tired of the wrap-up party, and finding the set deserted he had collapsed on the couch, intending only to rest for a minute or two.

How long had he been asleep? He pushed his weight onto the brown cushion and slowly raised himself to his feet. A phantom remnant of the tingling remained. He looked around him for a clock. The wall by the sofa had several papers pinned to the dark green, flowery wallpaper. A yellow smiley face spray painted high on the wall was peppered with bullet holes. On the adjacent wall a bulls head with ear muffs hung above the desk. He peered at the fireplace across the room, its mantelpiece covered with odd props such as a human skull and an insect display case. No clocks.

He felt exhausted. Being the lead actor certainly had its perks, but it also meant that he had to work longer hours than any of the others due to all of his extra scenes. He hoped they wouldn’t mind too much that he missed out on the party, though he had no idea how much time had passed since he slipped away. It was only a small party, a celebration for finally finishing all of the series’ filming. They would most likely throw a proper one after the series premier.

He walked over to the door and placed his hand over the cool handle. His fingers felt distant. Alien almost. He slowly swung open the door, trying to displace the strange feelings swarming through his body. He reasoned that he wouldn’t overwork himself anymore, and he made it a goal to spend most of his vacation resting. The familiar flight of stairs was presented before him, and yet, the sight was disconcerting. He shut the door behind him and then began his descent. He halted on the fourth step down. Something wasn’t right.

The staircase should end. Now. And yet, the stairs continued to descend. He reminded himself of what it should be like. The staircase that is attached to the set of the apartment has only enough steps for them to get their shots in. Could he be on the long staircase?

He turned and walked back up to the set. He reminded himself that he’s in a box in the middle of a sound stage. The staircase is a different set, a giant dolls house that’s also on the sound stage within the studio.

He stood in the open doorway, his fingers lingering on the handle. The couch that he slept on remained pressed against the wall. Two mismatched arm chairs faced each other in front of the fire. To his left was the entrance to the kitchen. The scene was cozy and comfortable, perfectly resembling a bachelor’s flat with its mix of disorganization and tidiness. He scanned the room, a feeling of uneasiness seeping within him. Everything appeared the exact same as it did when they had filmed there earlier that day.

The lighting. That’s what’s off. It was dimmer than it should be. A solitary lamp emitted a faint glow in the corner. He glanced upwards to see if the stage lights are off, but there was a ceiling blocking his view.

A ceiling? His hand fell away from the door as he stepped further into the room. Why was there a ceiling? It certainly wasn’t there before. The set never had a ceiling; instead it opened up to the sound stage where the producers could man the lights and control the cameras.

He jumped onto the sofa and pressed his palm against the ceiling. It was firm and didn’t budge. He felt along the corner—it was solidly attached.

Was this some sort of a trick? He hopped off the sofa. Did they put a ceiling on the set while he was sleeping?

With determination he strode to the stairs and began his descent, only pausing once to hold his hand out in front of him, uncertain if he was hallucinating or not—and was greeted by open air. He counted seventeen steps by the time he finally reached the bottom. He stood in the entrance to the flat, the door ahead of him, a small hallway leading to nowhere behind him. This must all be some type of elaborate prank for him; a surprise for when he woke up. Curse them all. It was something Steven would come up with. The writer of the show was probably laughing behind closed doors, watching a live feed.

He quickly glanced all around him, looking for a camera. He didn’t see any, but there was probably one hidden somewhere. The others would just love to see the confusion splayed on his face as he reacted to his surroundings. He pulled open the door ahead of him and stepped into the small entrance. A shoe stand stood to his right, a couple pairs of muddy boots and other props rested on it. He wondered where everyone was. This was just like the neutron cream prank that had been done on him during his last project—the one that the media had seized upon, aggrandizing all of the reports to make him even more embarrassed. This prank would probably get even more attention. He could see the headlines. “Sherlock sleuth Benedict Cumberbatch duped again!”

He muttered a curse under his breath. He envisioned storming out onto the soundstage and demanding an explanation. He yanked open the front door.  
A chill licked his skin as the night sky stretched out before him. Benedict stared dumbly at the empty street. His mind felt frozen.

The door shut, prompted by the subconscious movements of his arm. He felt detached. They couldn’t have… could they? His breathing became shallow. How did the set door open up to the outside?

A shaky hand gripped the handle and the door opened once more. He stepped onto the sidewalk and stared at the scenery around him with an eerie sense of recognition. He was definitely in London—which was disturbing, as the studio was located just outside of Cardiff. Tall, cramped buildings lined the streets. He walked to the building to his left and stared at the large white letters “Speedy’s Cafe” written across a red canopy. He recognized the place, how could he not? He was on North Gowers street, where they filmed the outside of the famous consulting detective’s flat. He walked back to the apartment and placed his hand on the painted black door. His finger trailed over the golden doorknob that rested just beneath the address: 221B.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. How could they have moved an entire replica of the set all the way to London with him still sleeping inside? Had he been drugged?

“Sherlock, is that you?” A woman’s voice called out.

Benedict pushed open the door. “Una!” He rushed past the entrance and came to a stop at the foot of the stairs.

Una Stubbs stood in the center of the small hallway, holding a dish towel and a pan. An apron hung over her flowery purple shirt. “Are you alright dear? You look dreadful.” Her eyebrows pulled into a concerned knot.

Relief washed over him, and he suddenly felt the need to collapse. His body was acting strange, as if it wasn’t his own. He walked to the chair resting beside the stairs, but the chair faced the door, and he really didn’t want to think about what was outside. He instead leaned heavily against the telephone table to his right and stared at Una’s small figure in the hallway. He desperately need an explanation. “What are you doing here? Where is everyone?”

“You told me that you didn’t want to be disturbed—you’ve been alone in your flat all afternoon.” Her expression turned hopeful. “Did you find out anything about what’s been on the telly? It’s really caused quite a scare—it’s all dreadful business, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” His hand slipped, knocking the lamp over. He quickly righted it. “What’s on the news? Is the party over?”

“It must be quite a shock, realizing that the man who was dead is suddenly back again.” Her lips pulled into a thin line. “Now you know what it feels like.”

“What what feels like?”

“I’m sorry; I know that wasn’t fair at all for me to say.” She began drying her pan with her dish towel. “But it is a bit strange isn’t it, that both of you faked your deaths?”

He felt a headache begin surfacing behind his temple. “What?”

She glanced up at him with concern. “Do you need to sit down? This whole thing must be quite overwhelming for you.”

“A bit, yeah,” he agreed. He stared at the long set of stairs to his left. “Did they seriously move the entire set to London just to mess with me?”

“I’m not sure what you’re going on about.”

He glanced over at her and saw her nose scrunched in confusion. Why wasn’t she just giving him straight answers?

“Would you like some tea?” She nodded her head in determination and turned to walk back down the hallway. “That’s just the thing,” she said over her shoulder as she passed through the doorway.

He blinked his eyes, wondering if her disappearance was a hallucination. The set back at the studio just cut off at that point, but at the apartment there’s a door that leads to the back of Speedy’s cafe next door. He followed after her to tentatively peek through the doorway and was surprised that it opened up into a small kitchen. He recognized it as the set for Mrs. Hudson’s flat, but his memory was shady as he hadn’t done any scenes there within the past few years. It certainly looked different than the back of the cafe; they must have spent hours rebuilding it.

“Where am I?” He asked as he took a step inside the kitchen, marveling that the crew had been so dedicated to set this all up.

Una began preparing the tea at the stove. “If you would visit me more often you would recognize the place. Instead you make me travel up all those stairs when you want tea and biscuits—you know what that does to my hip.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hip, is there?”

She cast a scalding glare at him. “Sherlock, I’ve been complaining about my surgery ever since you moved in! Of course there’s something wrong with my hip, I don’t complain just for the sake of complaining.”

“Sherlock?” Realization began to dawn. “Oh—are you in on it too? Pretending to be Mrs. Hudson to make me look like an even bigger fool?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Una this isn’t funny anymore.” He glanced around the room for more hidden cameras. “I am done with this prank, and I must say you all really over exerted yourselves. Honestly, just putting a ceiling in the living room was enough.”

Una turned back to look at him, her expression filled with concern. “You aren’t making any sense. Are you feeling ill?” She set aside the kettle and neared him, extending the back of her hand to feel for a temperature.

“I’m fine.” He grabbed her hand before she reached his forehead. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

“But you are home dear; your flat is just upstairs.”

“You can drop your act now.” He dropped her hand and turned away. “Whoever set this up is seriously going to pay.”

“Sherlock—”

“Una, seriously, stop now.”

“Why are you calling me Una?”

“Why are you calling me Sherlock? Filming’s over.” He turned back to peer at her. “What are you even doing here? You finished all of your scenes weeks ago.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Well I have no idea what’s going on either!” He threw his hands into the air for emphasis, knowing that he was being overdramatic. Steven and Mark were probably rolling on the floor laughing from his reaction. “Where are the cameras at? I have a feeling that someone deserves a certain thanks.” He extended his hand in a rude gesture and pointed it throughout the room.

“Sherlock! How dare you! In my kitchen—”

“So how did they do it?” He interrupted. “Just this morning we were filming on North Gower Street, and it didn’t look like this.” He opened his arms to encompass his surroundings. “Did they get help from the fans after we left? There were hundreds of them! They must have helped replicate the set while I wrapped up a few scenes with Martin and Amanda at the studio.” He ran his fingers through his hair, not caring that he messed up all of his curls. “Whoever did this is absolutely insane.”

Una stared at him with incomprehension, her expression frightened.

He began pacing back and forth. “But how did they do it? The set is way bigger than the actual apartment.” He halted mid step. “They didn’t completely reconstruct the inside of the apartment, did they?” He rushed out of the room, knowing that it would be impossible to fit in the entire set into the miniscule apartment of 187 North Gower Street.

He took two steps at a time, but on his third leap his chest constricted to the point where pain completely enveloped him. He collapsed against the wall and clenched his hand over his heart. It felt like he was having a heart attack.

He froze in place and blinked tears from his eyes. His heart pounded harshly, each reverberation shooting fiery pain through his chest. He was frightened. What made his chest hurt? Was he having a negative reaction from being drugged?

Una appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Oh Sherlock!” She exclaimed, full of concern. “You mustn’t strain your heart.” She began walking up the wooden stairs to him.

“Why not?” He gasped. He was perfectly healthy—until today, apparently.

“Because you’ve been shot!” She said incredulously. “You aren’t superhuman, you know.” She neared his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

He stared at her blankly. He couldn’t believe she was still pretending that he was Sherlock. Whatever was happening to him, it was serious, but she instead continued to play her games.

Her kind eyes were full of concern. “Do you need any help?”

He shook his head in frustration and hurried up the stairs away from her, ignoring the rampant pain in his chest. He took the door to the left and barged into the kitchen. He glanced all around him. It appeared just like he was back on set with all of the props in their correct places.

He passed through the kitchen and poked his head into the bathroom. A large bathtub rested in the corner—it was the very same as the one back on the set. The iron bathtub first appeared in the episode “A Scandal in Belgravia” as Irene Adler’s bathtub, and the producers had liked it so much that they bought it and moved it into the 221B set. He shook his head in amazement. He couldn’t believe they were so dedicated to move the extremely heavy prop all the way to London.

He paused at the door that supposedly led to Sherlock’s bedroom. Logically there was no way that they could have reconstructed the flat to include it, as technically the building cut off at the edge of the kitchen. He pulled open the door, expecting to face a brick wall.

An entire bedroom was revealed. Sherlock’s bedroom. His jaw fell open as he gazed at the large room and the queen sized bed sitting to his left. It was extremely tidy, the dressers scrupulously cleared and the bedding made. The producers had joked that Sherlock likes to keep his room tidy and cram all of his mess out in the living room, but the bedroom hadn’t shown up in any of the shots for season three. It took a dedicated fan to remember that detail.

His feet led himself into the room and straight to the window. He pushed aside the curtains and gazed through the glass to the dark street below. It was impossible. He froze as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the production crew had somehow been able to add on the huge bedroom.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

Startled, Benedict turned away from the window. He hadn’t realized how long he had been standing there. Una stood in the doorway wringing her hands, concern etched across her face.

His mouth felt dry. “The bedroom…” He didn’t know how to finish his sentence.

“I did a bit of hoovering while you were at your parent’s, I hope you don’t mind. It really was getting quite dusty in here—”

Ignoring what she was saying, he tried to think of a word that would explain his dilemma. “It’s like a Tardis.” Satisfied with the analogy, he continued; “It’s bigger on the inside.” He glanced back through the window. He was pretty certain that there wasn’t actually a type of Time Lord Technology available to pull off this stunt.

“Tardis—that name sounds familiar.”

Benedict turned away from the window, unable to register what he was seeing. Out of curiosity he approached a dresser and pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with socks, each of them meticulously placed in neat rows. He gazed at it, utterly dumbfounded.

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “Like Doctor Who! That’s such an old show, I didn’t know that you’ve seen it.”

He slammed the dresser drawer shut and jerked open the next one down. It was full of pants. Actual pants. They weren’t dedicated enough to stick real underwear into the drawers, were they? He withdrew a pair and felt the cotton material, examining them to see their size.

“If you wanted me to leave, you could have just asked,” she huffed.

He moaned. They were actually his size. This was getting extremely creepy.

He hastily slammed the pants back into the drawer. He turned to face Una, who continued to look at him as if he were completely insane—which he was starting to believe. The bedroom shouldn’t be able to exist, and yet, here it was. It was an anomaly of space and volume. How was Una not concerned at all?

“This room, how did they make this room?!”

“Well, they built it with the rest of the apartment, I suppose. Do you not like it?”

“This room shouldn’t be able to exist! It’s too large for the building—it should extend over the street.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He clamped his jaw shut, realizing that she wasn’t going to help him at all. Perhaps he really was going insane, and he just wasn’t thinking this through. His mind returned to what she had said while he was distracted by what he had found in the drawers. He decided to change the subject. “Wait, what did you say about Doctor Who?”

She leaned against the door frame. “It was a show that I watched as a girl. It went on for years, but it ended about twenty years ago. I’m surprised that you’ve seen it.”

“You’re joking, right?” He felt like he was going to burst.

“What do you mean?”

“My own mother was an actress in the show! Our show’s writers are also in charge of it! I—” He balled his hands into fists and pushed them into his eyes. Una had been friends with his mom for years, and it was simply impossible for someone on the show of Sherlock to not know about Doctor Who. Steven Moffat, the writer of Sherlock, was also the producer of Doctor Who. Mark Gatiss, the actor for Mycroft and co-writer of Sherlock had also been a guest writer and actor for the Sci Fi show on a number of occasions.

“Oh.” He clenched his teeth. “You’re just messing with me.”

There was a frightened pause. “You’re scaring me.”

He dropped his hands, his fingers clenched tight. He refused to look at her, infuriated that she was keeping up the charade.

“I’m going to call John.”

“Fine.” Benedict muttered. If she wanted to drag Martin, the actor for John, into this as well, then so be it. His coworker would probably be able to stay in character for a minute or two before he finally broke down and started laughing at him.

He seethed as he listened to her footsteps gradually grow more distant. He was surprised at how well Una was able to keep up her act, but he doubted Martin would be able to last as long. His chest felt sore. He sat down on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. He didn’t care that there might be cameras pointed at him right now. He felt worn out. He focused on the amount of air he allowed into his lungs as he took in measured breaths to calm himself down. Each breath caused strain against his chest. He considered filing a lawsuit against whoever drugged him.

He remained motionless for a few minutes until he could think reasonably once more. He wanted to know why someone would put so much effort into pranking him. How far did this prank even go? He slowly stood before walking over to the closet. He opened it to reveal an array of suit pants and buttoned shirts; all of the costumes for his character.  
Perhaps this stunt wasn’t just for him. What if it was a Sherlock museum—a place for the fans to explore and take pictures? He would certainly put a word in about removing the pants; he didn’t want any crazy fans knowing his underwear size. He wondered why they would make an entire replica of the set for the fans—unless they were done with all of the props. He was certain that they were going to be making more episodes; he had signed the contract for season four. And how on earth did they get everything here in just one day?

He walked over to a sword hanging on the wall. The plaque underneath it dated Sherlock’s first place win at the Camford sport’s society in 1996. His throat felt dry and he decided that he needed to get a drink. As he exited the room he passed by a large poster of the periodic table of the elements hanging by the door and then nearly tripped over a large stack of magazines in the hallway. He quickly reached down to grab the huge stack of Gun and Ammo magazines before they fell. The production designer Arwel Wyn Jones had collected them all for Sherlock’s character, even though John’s character was typically the one with a gun.

After righting the magazines he ambled into the kitchen in search of a glass of water. Or some Guinness. Definitely that. He yanked open the fridge and was suddenly overwhelmed by a putrid scent. He covered his nose as he stared at a display of dismembered fingers swimming in a bag of blood in the center of the fridge. He held up the bag to examine it, marveling at how accurate it appeared. He set it back down and searched for a beer but his search came up empty. Instead he found unidentifiable food speckled with mold and a jug of milk that was so outdated that the liquid had all turned to sludge. He slammed shut the fridge with a dissatisfied sigh. Of course; Sherlock doesn’t drink—it had only taken two hours before he got completely hammered during the second episode of the season. There wouldn’t be any beer in the fridge in order to accurately represent the characters, but was the rotting food really necessary?

After searching through all of the disorganization in the cabinets he finally found a glass, which he held under the faucet and filled with water. He drank it thirstily, hoping that Martin would get there soon so that he could find out what was going on.

In the meantime, he was going to do a bit of exploring. He picked up an ice cream bin full of keys off the counter and looked through each meticulously labeled key. Should Sherlock ever find the need to unlock a door again, this is what he’d use. He set down the bin, accidentally knocking it against a blood analysis chart hanging from the cabinet. He turned to look at the table littered with documents, blood slides, and various vials. He glanced these over, recognizing them from the set, and made his way into the living room still clutching his glass.

The two mismatched chairs for Sherlock’s and John’s characters were surprisingly uncomfortable, lacking much in the way of functioning springs, though Martin loved his and insisted that they remain that way. He walked between them and stared into the mirror above the fireplace, which was retractable to allow a space for a camera trap. His reflection looked terrible. His long, curly black hair was in tangles. He really despised his Sherlock hair, thinking it made him look too much like a woman. He was going to cut it shorter the first chance he got. His pale face was pallid and dark bags pooled under his eyes. His nap that day had done him absolutely no good.

When he turned his foot bumped into something. He glanced down to see a Persian slipper, where Sherlock supposedly stored his cigarettes. He bent to pick up the slipper and peered inside of the pointed toe. It was a reference to the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to have cigarettes in the slipper, which was why it was included as a prop in the show. He found no cigarettes. He would have really liked one about now. He let the slipper drop out of his fingers.

He took another sip of his water as he walked over to the music stand. He glanced over the notes for Beethoven’s Sonata #1 and shifted through the pages, knowing that there should be some Gallifreyan script hidden in the back. The production designer, Arwel, had slid those in as a sly nod to his past work on Doctor Who. Instead he found more pages of Bach, Beethoven and Mozart. He figured that he could let this little discrepancy slide, as everything else in the flat was so true to the original. He looked around for Sherlock’s violin and found it resting on the floor behind the stand. It was probably the same instrument that he played; the one with cotton strings so that when he screeched out notes he didn’t make anyone’s ears bleed.

He glanced at the bookshelf to his right that was bending under the weight of several books. He wasn’t one to have a picture perfect memory of the order of books back on set, but the mismatched, disorganized books crammed onto the shelf looked surprisingly similar to what he was used to. Whoever set all this up was a huge stickler for details.  
He heard footsteps on the stairs. He began heading for the door, setting his glass down on the desk beneath the black bison head.

There was a pause before Martin finally appeared in the doorway, his face lined with concern. He was wearing a dark jacket and a pair of jeans; still in costume. Benedict remained at the side of the coffee table. He really hoped Martin wouldn’t pretend to be John and would instead explain what was going on.

Martin hesitated for a moment as he took in Benedict’s appearance. “Sherlock, is everything alright?”

Benedict moaned. “Not you too!” He was starting to get fed up with being called Sherlock. He wearily rubbed his face.

Martin stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Hudson called me over; she said you’ve been acting strange.”

“Can’t you just give me a break?” He complained, wishing that this would all end soon.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No. I just want you to drop your act!”

Martin rubbed his nose. “I didn’t realize I was acting.”

Benedict scoffed. Of course he was acting, just like Una. “Who set you up?”

“No one that I’m aware of. What’s going on?”

“You tell me.”

Martin stared at him for a long time. Benedict sincerely hoped that the truth would finally come out and he’d be able to learn who the culprits were. As of now Martin’s name was at the top of the list, just beneath Moffat and Gatiss.

“D’you know that your name’s been all over the telly?” Martin finally said after a long pause. “They’re saying that you’re the only one who can go against him. You’re the one who ended him in the first place.” He stood straighter. “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why they’re putting their trust in you, seeing as you failed the first time.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Martin took a step towards him and pointed at his chest. “You said he died. Shot himself in the face. And then you jumped off a building. Two years later, both of you are back, alive and well.”

Benedict was stunned. Was he talking about the show? “Wait, are you talking about Moriarty?”

Martin’s mouth parted slightly in shock. He quickly clamped it shut as his body stiffened. “Yes.” He rocked back onto his heels. “Seems appropriate, since his face was broadcasted on every t.v. station this morning.”

“Oh, I get it.” If Martin was going to play games, then so be it. “You want me to figure out the secret behind Moriarty’s reappearance before you tell me what’s really going on.”

“Sure, that would be great,” Martin clipped.

“I have Steven and Mark on speed dial. Why don’t we just ask them?!”

“Who are Steven and Mark?” Martin eagerly looked at him. “Do they know anything?”

Benedict felt like tearing his own hair out. He was not going to play along if Martin was going to be this obstinate at staying in character. “You know what? I don’t want to learn why they’re bringing Moriarty back.”

“Who brought Moriarty back?”

“Come on!” he moaned.

Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine.” His hazel eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you want to know?”

Benedict rolled his eyes. “It was bad enough keeping the secret of how Sherlock survived—”

“You refer to yourself in the third person now?

Benedict looked around the flat. He desperately wished he could just have an explanation without playing all of these games. “Look—all I wanted to know was how I got here. Why am I here?”

“Those are questions for a priest.” Martin replied satirically.

“Shut up Martin.”

“Martin?” His eyebrow rose in confusion.

Benedict raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, sorry. Are we still playing your little game? I’m Sherlock Holmes and you are Doctor John Watson.” He held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Can I go home now?”

Martin peered at him quizzically. “Did you fall and hit your head?”

Benedict let his hand fall. “Where is everyone? Is the party over?” He looked all over the ceiling and then stared into the fireplace mirror, knowing that was where they kept the cameras. “Or is this part of the party—watching me go insane?” He couldn’t see any signs of a camera. Of course, they normally removed the mirror and there never was a ceiling for the set, so they must have hidden the cameras elsewhere.

Martin’s expression turned to concern. He hesitated before approaching him. “I think you should probably rest.” He lightly placed his hand on Benedict’s wrist.

Benedict jerked his hand away. “I don’t want to sleep here.” He lowered his voice. “They actually put pants into the drawers. My size,” he said fearfully.

“What? Sherlock—”

“Stop calling me that!”

Martin took a step back to give him some space. He looked as if he didn’t know what to do. “What would you like me to call you?” he asked in a calm voice.

“Benedict. Obviously, seeing as that’s my real name.”

Martin’s mouth gaped open once again. After a moment he regained composure. “Alright then.” He coughed to clear his throat. “... Benedict. Let’s get you to bed. Doctor’s orders.”

Ignoring him, Benedict walked over to the fireplace. It was his turn to ask questions now. “Is this place now a tour site?” He picked up the skull on the mantelpiece. “Like the hobbit hole in New Zealand?”

“What?” Martin asked, incredulous.

“Hobbiton. In Matamata. Lovely place.” He set the skull down. “Are they doing the same thing for the Sherlock set?” He paused to think about it for a moment. Hobbiton was a tour site of the house of Martin’s character, Bilbo Baggins. If they created a Sherlock tour site, it could technically be called Benedict’s, as it was his character’s flat. “Actually, that would be pretty neat. You get Hobbiton and I get 221B.” He offered Martin a grin. “Now we’re even.”

“What happened to you since I’ve been gone?”

“That’s an excellent question. I think I’ve been drugged.” He paused for a moment, letting the accusation hang in the air. Martin had no reaction other to crinkle his nose and appear confused.

“After I snuck out of the party I woke up here.” He continued, pointing at the sofa. “I nearly had a heart attack when I saw there was a ceiling. Actually, that was when I tried to race up the stairs- it must have been an aftereffect of the drugs.” He hoped that mentioning that last bit would get Martin to feel remorse. Instead, Martin just appeared more clueless than before.

“Did you relapse?”

“What?”

“Are you high, Sherlock?”

“No, I said I’ve been drugged. I don’t do drugs. And I’m not Sherlock.”

“Sorry…Benedict. Look, you’re obviously under a lot of stress from this whole ‘Moriarty’ situation—”

“Can you stop acting like the show is real? It’s over, filming’s done, and I’m ready for a break, but instead I have to deal with all of you pulling my tail—”

“Stop.” Martin held out a hand in the halt position. “Just, stop.” He pointed at Sherlock’s chair. “Sit.”

Benedict stared at him. Martin continued to point at the gray chair, the one that Benedict’s character always sat in. It didn’t look as if he was going to say anything else until he followed orders. Benedict reluctantly obliged and plopped down into his seat.

Martin slowly walked over to his own character’s chair and sat down. “Now.” He cleared his throat and sat straighter on the red cushions. “You are my client. We need to find out what’s been going on with…” He pointed at Benedict, unable to find words to describe what he was thinking.

“I’m your client? You know you’re not really a doctor, right?”

Martin blinked after a pause. “We’re going to start at the beginning.” He shifted forwards in his seat. “What is your name?”

Benedict rolled his eyes. This was going nowhere, but then again, it might be Martin’s last ruse before he finally broke and let him know what was going on. “Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Martin stared at him with a dumbfounded expression. “Seriously?”

Benedict glared at him.

“Out of all the names you could have chosen, you picked one even more ridiculous than Sherlock Holmes?” Martin leaned back in his seat, his lips pulled into a smile. “I didn’t even know that was possible.” He caught Benedict’s glare and instantly sobered. “Right. Well then. What is my name?”

“Martin Freeman.”

“Huh. I expected something more like ‘Edwin Tuttlebottom’ or ‘Mike Rotch.’”

“Real mature.”

Martin attempted to stifle a grin. “Do you have a middle name?”

“Yes. It’s my father’s name.”

“Oh?”

“Timothy Carlton.”

“Hmm. Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch. That’s a mouthful.”

“Can you just get to the point please?”

“Right, right.” He nodded his head in affirmation before regaining his serious composure. “What is your occupation?”

Benedict rubbed his thigh. “Actor.”

“Really?” Martin raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, and so are you.”

“What type of movies do I play in?”

“Ridiculous ones.”

“Uh huh, and what type of movies do you do?”

“Excellent ones.”

Martin’s lips pursed. He stared at Benedict for a moment before continuing. “What was the last project you were in?”

Benedict sighed. “Sherlock.” This was really getting tedious. “Filming just wrapped up today.”

Martin’s brows furrowed. “So you’re in a movie called ‘Sherlock?’”

“T.V. Series.”

Martin contemplated for a moment. “So you’re an actor who plays the character ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in a T.V. show called ‘Sherlock,’ that is entirely about Sherlock?” He leaned back  
in his seat and folded his arms. “You really are full of yourself.”

He and Martin always got into fights about ego, and now was his turn to retort. “You’re one to talk—Bilbo. You have an entire multi-million dollar trilogy that centers on your character.”

Shock crossed over Martin’s face. “I’m the lead in a multi-million dollar trilogy?”

Strange. Normally Martin would complain about the ‘pesky Smaug stealing his show.’ He might need a reminder. “Yes, and I’m the main antagonist in said trilogy.”

“What’s it called?”

“Seriously Martin, will you give it a rest?”

Martin pursed his lips, obviously refraining from saying something. After a pause, he changed the subject. ”Do you remember how you got here?”

“No. I was drugged, remember?”

“What do you remember doing before you were supposedly drugged?”

Benedict gripped the gray armrests of his chair and watched his knuckles turn white. “I went to the wrap up party this afternoon. You were there, so I don’t really see why all this questioning is needed.”

“Imagine I wasn’t there.”

Benedict sighed. “After filming, Steven and Sue pulled out a bit of champagne- which probably had some roofies in it or something- and there was a small party with the cast and crew. I left early to rest a bit, and I fell asleep on the couch in the set.” He released his deathlike grip and folded his arms across his chest. “When I woke up, the set looked exactly the same, but now it’s been moved to London.”

“Where is the set normally located?”

Benedict was getting extremely tired of twenty questions. “In a studio near Cardiff.”

“”Huh.” Martin absentmindedly traced his finger over his bottom lip. “So you believe that there’s a set in another town in England that is an exact replica of this flat.”

“It’s not a replica of this flat. The studio is the flat,” he defended. “This flat doesn’t exist. Shouldn’t exist—the dimensions are impossible.”

“Right.” Martin dropped his hand and rested it against the armrest. “So Sherlock Holmes is just a fictional character on the telly, and none of this is real.”

Benedict sighed, hoping that Martin’s ruse was finally drawing to a conclusion. “He’s not just a character on the telly, and I’m not the only one to play him. He’s the most portrayed literary figure in all of history—though I must admit that our version of him is pretty extraordinary.” He smirked at his narcissistic reply.

“Literary figure?” Lines creased over Martin’s forehead.

“Yes—he’s the greatest sleuth ever imagined, created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the eighteen hundreds; his works published all throughout the world and never going out of print.”

“So if Sherlock is a detective in the eighteen hundreds, then how…” Martin paused and looked around the modern day flat. “How is he here now?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.” Benedict joked, pretending to hold a pipe in his hand. An Oscar should be awarded to Martin for the amount of confusion he was able to portray in response.

“Two fan boys of the show, Steven and Mark, delightfully decided to take the Victorian consulting detective and stick him into a modern adaptation.” Benedict explained as he crossed his leg over his knee and proudly pointed at himself. “They specifically wanted me to be the lead, and after filming two seasons- just wrapping up the third today—our show has been one of the most watched BBC programs ever.”

“That’s remarkable.” Martin’s expression was a mix of emotions that Benedict was not able to decipher. He wasn’t sure if Martin was being serious or satirical in his response.

“There’s also a modern American adaptation with my friend Jonny Lee Miller playing the lead.” Benedict continued. “Which is pretty interesting, seeing as we both switched roles as Frankenstein and his monster in a play, and now we’re both Sherlock.” He knew that Martin already knew all of this, but he decided to add a bit of spite anyways. “I’m not sure that you’d appreciate that version, seeing as your character is played by an oriental woman.”

“What?” Martin exclaimed. “I’m an Asian girl?”

“It’s not too bad…“ Benedict said through his smile. “At least you’re not another bumbling idiot, as most producers tend to portray you as.”

“A bumbling idiot?” He asked, outraged.

“Yes, well, luckily our producers wanted to actually give you some character.”

Martin frowned. “What about my other role? The one where I’m the lead?”

“You’re the hobbit in ‘The Hobbit.’”

“Based off of the book?”

“Obviously.”

“And I play Bilbo?”

“Yes.” Benedict disinterestedly glanced around the flat. It was so strange having a ceiling over his head. It made the room feel complete- like he could actually live here. “And I play  
Smaug.”

“Smaug?” Martin copied, his mouth opening wide to form the unnatural vowels.

“Hmm, yes. Like ‘crowd.’”

“So, in this alternate reality of yours, you imagine yourself as Smaug…” He paused, the name unfamiliar to him, “A powerful, filthy-rich dragon that faces off against me, the hobbit.”

“Technically you faced off against a few tennis balls and a green screen while I slithered across a stage and spoke as menacingly as possible.”

Martin chuckled. “I would pay to see that.”

“It was horrendous.” Benedict complained, his mind seared from the memory. “I had to wear a leotard and I had dots all over my face.”

Martin continued to smirk as he pressed on. “You must have really enjoyed playing yourself then, as- what did you say—the ‘greatest sleuth ever?’”

“I wasn’t playing myself!”

“The show’s even named after you.”

“If the show was about me, it would be called ‘Benedict Cumberbatch,’ not ‘Sherlock.’”

“Funny. I thought you liked your name.”

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes! And if you tell me you’re John one more time-”

“But I really am him. Doctor John Watson.” Martin waved his hand. “Hello.”

“Martin, this isn’t funny.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me John.”

Benedict couldn’t believe how long Martin was holding on to the ruse. “Do you really expect me to believe that you’re the real John?”

He nodded.

As if he could accept an answer like that. Benedict might be confused—most likely from whatever he had been drugged with and his unexpected surroundings, but there was no way he was going to believe something as ridiculous as the claim that he was really in the world of Sherlock, sitting across from the real John. “Oh, and I suppose that it’s actually Mrs. Hudson downstairs, who I just happened to give the bird to?”

Martin’s forehead creased. “You flipped off Mrs. Hudson?”

Benedict groaned and put his face in his hands. Regardless of who he flipped off—his longtime family friend Una Stubbs or the real Mrs. Hudson, what he had done was unacceptable. “She’s lucky that’s all I did. I’m surprised that I haven’t started swearing like a sailor yet.”

“D’you swear often?”

“Not as much as you do.”

Martin fell silent. The pause dragged on until Benedict couldn’t take it anymore and he glanced up at his coworker. Martin appeared extremely perturbed; perhaps a bit frightened. Benedict was afraid for a moment that he had offended him, but something about the way he was looking at him told him otherwise.

“So, doctor.” Benedict teased, hoping to draw Martin from his reverie. “What’s your verdict on your client? Completely insane? Abrupt and rude? Or do I look too much like an attractive otter for you to focus?”

The last part of his sentence startled Martin. “What?” he blurted. He shook his head as if to chase the thought away.

Benedict was confused. His joke was hilarious- why didn’t Martin get it? There was a popular internet meme going around that showed Benedict making different faces next to photographs depicting otters doing the exact same expression. They’d seen the pictures and had laughed at them together, and Martin even had his own animal that would be shown next to his own pictures; a hedgehog. He decided that he’d had enough of the torment and that it was time for him to leave.

“Are you going to let me go now?” Not waiting for an answer, Benedict rose to his feet. “Where’s my motorbike at? I left it parked at the studio, but seeing as I’ve been kidnapped…”

“Wait.” Martin hastily scrambled out of his chair. “I don’t think you should be going anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a bloody idiot that believes he’s someone else entirely.”

“Oh, I’m the one pretending?” He let out a mocking laugh. “So in order for me to leave, I need to act like the great consulting detective.” His sharp eyes peered around the room.  
“Where’s my Belstaff? I’ve got to pop my collar and act all mysterious and then ramble off deductions.”

Martin crossed his arms in a defensive stance. “I think you need to stay until we find out why you are having these delusions.”

“I’m not the delusional one.” He spied his coat laying on the floor to the left of the sofa and walked over to retrieve it.

“You don’t think you’re Sherlock Holmes.” Martin observed in a serious tone, as if it were a crime.

“No shit, Sherlock.” His reply was draped with as much sarcasm he could muster as he picked up the black coat off the floor.

“I’m not Sherlock.”

“Neither am I.” He rolled his eyes before forcing out an explanation. “It’s an expression.”

Martin remained silent as Benedict began searching the coat for a phone. He found one in the right pocket, but it was the prop for Sherlock’s phone. He glanced around the flat, wondering where his own was.

“You’ve created an entire backstory for yourself, and for me.” His voice sounded a bit astonished, as if he couldn’t believe that Benedict actually had a life outside of Sherlock.

“If you call our lives the backstory for our job, then yes, I suppose so.” He tossed the Belstaff on the sofa and turned on the phone.

“I think you’re experiencing a multiple personality disorder.”

Benedict scoffed and turned to look at his friend. “That’s what actors do, isn’t it? Pretend to be other people? But I never actually believed that I’m Sherlock. Can you imagine if I actually became the roles I played?” He laughed at the thought and rubbed his jaw. “I’d be the fire breathing, psychopathic, Australian genius who likes to go around crushing people’s skulls and creating Frankenstein's monster for fun- just to name a few of my past roles.”

Martin appeared too stunned for words. “This… this is all a bit out of my depth.” He withdrew his phone from his pocket. “I’m going to call Mary.”

“Oh, is Amanda in London? I figured that she was with the kids.”

Martin pushed a button for speed dial and then held the phone to his ear. “I’m guessing that Amanda is the actress who plays Mary?”

“Yep.” He let the “p” pop extremely loud as he stared at the list of contact numbers that were on the phone. They were literally all numbers; there were no names or anything.

“And Amanda has kids?”

“Two.” Benedict sighed as he stared at his phone. Caller ID is incredible, but it takes away the need to memorize numbers. He would have liked to call Steven or Mark to give them his well worded opinion of this prank, but without his own phone he was helpless. 

“Really?”

“And you’d never believe who the fathers is.” He was being sarcastic, as Martin obviously was the father. Martin and Amanda had been a couple for a decade.

“Who?”

Benedict looked up at his friend and frowned. Martin was doing an excellent job of looking genuinely confused. “Where’s my motorbike?” He asked instead, changing the subject.

“You don’t have one.”

“Wrong. Sherlock doesn’t have one—which is why he always takes a cab. I however, ride my motorbike, drive my jaguar, or take the tube.” He put the phone into his pocket.

“You have a jaguar?” Martin asked incredulously. “I—oh, Mary, hi.” He held up his hand to apologize for the interruption and faced away from Benedict to talk to “Mary.”

Benedict rolled his eyes. It was time for him to leave—he didn’t want to have to deal with Amanda trying to convince him that he’s actually Sherlock as well. Since he’d been moved all the way to London he figured that he’d just have to hail a cab and find a decent hotel. The elaborate prank was getting on his nerves. He hated when things cut into his vacation time, and this definitely was setting a bad start for his relaxation period.

“Mary, I think you need to get over here as soon as you can.”

Benedict ignored Martin as he made his way to the door. Martin saw his intentions and quickly turned to hold out his arm to block him, but Benedict merely sidestepped him and headed for the kitchen.

“It’s urgent, Sherlock’s acting...” Martin attempted to explain as he hurriedly jumped in front of Benedict in order to block the kitchen exit. “Different.” He stopped in front of the doorway and planted his feet squarely.

Frustrated, Benedict grabbed for Martin’s phone and was able to snatch it successfully. He held out a hand to block Martin from retrieving it as he shouted into it. “Amanda, do me a favor and tell Martin that he’s being a complete ass!”

Martin lunged for the phone but Benedict was able to dodge and to keep it out of reach. He held it triumphantly over his head, and though his small coworker made his best attempts to reach it, Martin was no match for Benedict’s lanky height. Feeling pleased with himself, Benedict gave him a toothy grin.

“Oof!” Benedict dropped the phone after being punched in the stomach. He bowled over in pain from the unexpected attack.

Martin quickly grabbed the phone and held it to his ear. “Sorry, are you still there?” He leaned against the door as Benedict attempted to regain his breath. “Yes, that’s what he’s been calling us. He believes he’s an actor, and that we’re all just part of his show.”

Benedict put his hands on his knees and gasped for air. Martin packed a powerful punch. He was surprised—Martin always tended to do karate moves on him, but he had never actually hurt him before.

“I know, it’s crazy. I need your help…” He listened to Mary’s response. “Ok, see you soon.” Martin hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket. He silently watched as Benedict sucked in massive intakes of air. “You know what?”

Benedict let fly a few choice four-letter words to show his pain.

“You might actually be telling the truth, crazy as it sounds.” Martin remained leaning against the doorway and watched him struggle for air with a bemused expression. He appeared the triumphant victor; dismantling any pride Benedict might have felt for being the tall one. “I think you honestly believe that you’re someone else. Someone not Sherlock, I mean.”

Benedict winced as he stood up straight and glared daggers at his infuriating abuser. “I hate you right now.” He muttered immaturely.

The corner of Martin’s lips pulled up into a smile. “Gathered as much. Now, why don’t you take a seat? Mary should be here any minute.”

“And what are you going to do then? Punch me into submission?”

“Only if you swear in front of my wife. Do you speak to your mother like that?”

A few curses erupted from the angry actor in response. He looked around the kitchen, searching for a reachable object to toss at the infuriating bugger.

“And you said that I was the one with the potty mouth.” Martin joked.

Realizing that he might get sued for destroying one of the props, he decided against grabbing the microscope near him and physically damaging his coworker. He wondered which one would have the worse consequences- damaging the prop or the actor. “Just shut up Martin.”

“John.”

He decided he’d take his chances with the latter. Benedict wasn’t usually a man prone to violence, but at that moment he was feeling the need to land a punch on Martin’s smug face. Peter Jackson wouldn’t be too pleased when his lead role showed up with a black eye, but Benedict didn’t really care about the feelings of Martin’s director at that moment.

Martin saw his raised fist and quickly held out his hands in defense. “Hold on, hold on. There’s no need for violence.”

“Then why did you punch me?”

“You deserved it.”

“I deserved it?” He asked incredulously. “I’m not the one who’s been pretending to be someone else!”

“I beg to differ.”

His fist flew. Martin quickly grabbed it and in an instant their positions were reversed. Benedict was pushed against the door, his arm pinned painfully behind him. He gasped as Martin yanked his arm to the point where it felt like it might break. “Uncle, uncle!” Benedict shouted, the corner of his eyes brimming with tears. The release was instant as Martin stepped away from him. Benedict rested his head against the door as he hugged his arm protectively.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” Benedict muttered as he gingerly held his arm.

“I was in the army.”

“No. You. Weren’t.” He turned around. “You’ve been an actor your entire life- and even then you’ve had hardly any fighting roles.”

“Really?” Martin’s eyes narrowed as he took offense from his statement. “So in your world, I’m not a fighter. Or a doctor. Instead, I’m a little Hobbit, while you get to play the great big dragon.”

“I didn’t make any of this up!” He felt ridiculous for having to explain himself at all. “That’s really how it is!” Certainly Martin would have cracked by now and finally explained the prank, pointing out all of the hidden cameras. Unless he seriously believed that he was a crime fighting assistant to the great fictional sleuth. Martin might be crazy at times, but he wasn’t that insane.

“Do you always view me as being less than you?”

“What? No.” He flexed his fingers, testing the merits of his damaged arm. “You’ve got a big enough ego that I don’t need to worry about that.”

Martin scoffed. “Oh that’s grand. I’m the one with the ego?”

“Have you seen yourself? All one needs to do is watch a single interview with you and they know that you’re full of yourself.” He knew he was being unnecessarily cruel, but Martin deserved whatever insults could be thrown at him because of his stubbornness of remaining in character.

Martin sighed and began to remove his black jacket to reveal a dark gray jumper underneath. “The problem with that statement is that I’ve never done an interview.” He draped his jacket over the back of Sherlock’s chair. “I’m your—Sherlock’s—blogger. I only write; I never talk on camera.”

He’d had enough. If Martin wasn’t going to give in, he was going to leave. He stormed out of the door and let his feet stomp loudly as he raced down the stairs. Martin gave chase, calling after him to stop. Benedict ignored him and pushed past the entrance and swung the front door open into the night air. The scenery was disconcerting for a moment; he wasn’t used to being thrown outside rather than entering the sound stage.

He began to stride quickly down the sidewalk of North Gower’s street, passing by Speedy’s café. He heard footsteps behind him as Martin approached and fell into step beside him. One long stride for Benedict was two for Martin, but the short man was able to keep up surprisingly well. He fumed silently as he waited for Martin to berate him or finally reveal his trickery.

Though he now had the opportunity to speak, Martin remained quiet. Benedict ignored his presence and continued on his way, thinking that it wouldn’t take long for Martin to give in. The air was bitingly cold and he began to regret leaving his long woolen coat on the sofa. Martin also began to shiver, but his lips remained tightly pressed. Benedict’s eyes were continually on the lookout for a taxi as he drew further away from the flat. He was surprised at how long Martin was willing to follow obligingly along, much like an obedient puppy, without saying a single word.

Finally Martin spoke, the air from his lungs crystalizing into fog. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find a cab and go to a hotel.” Benedict responded haughtily, his teeth chattering against the chill. It was strange weather for September, he mused—as if fall had  
suddenly been pushed to the dead of winter.

“And then what?”

He wrapped his arms close around him to keep in his warmth. “Sleep. And try to delete this whole experience from my memory.”

“Like Sherlock does with his memories.” Martin shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep his extremities from freezing off.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, sending a puff of frozen air into the black sky. “No one can really delete their memories. I’m considering getting hammered though—that might help.”

“Sounds nice. That’ll probably warm you up.”

Benedict finally spied a taxi shooting by. He held out his hand and called, wishing that he didn’t have to expose his flanges to the cold. Thankfully the cab driver saw him and pulled over to the side of the road. Benedict stepped to the cab and pulled open the door to slide in. Martin stepped in as well, so Benedict obligingly slid over to supply room.

“Take me to the nearest hotel.” Benedict ordered.

“Actually, he wants to go back to Baker Street, please.” Martin overruled.

Benedict huffed as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Baker Street doesn’t exist. There’s no way the cabbie can take us to an imaginary location.”

The cab driver peered at him quizzically from the rear view mirror, his bushy eyebrows molding into one giant caterpillar of hair.

“Prove him wrong and take us to 221B Baker Street, please.” Martin reiterated.

“No. I want to get as far away from that place as possible. Find me a hotel.”

“I can drop one of you off first.” The cabbie suggested. “Who’s up?”

The two of them answered at the same time.

“Baker Street.”

“-Hotel.”

They glared at each other, Benedict seething that Martin was being so obstinate. Martin looked back at the cabbie.

“I have a bet lying on this. I need to prove to him that there’s a consulting detective living in 221B Baker Street, but he doesn’t believe that the street even exists.”

“Doesn’t exist? Sherlock Holmes lives there. I’ll take you there first and help with your bet.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.” Martin said as he turned back towards Benedict with a smug expression. The cab began to drive, making a U-turn back to the apartment.

“Oh please. Everyone knows that Speedy’s café and 221B is on North Gower Street. It doesn’t take much to figure out that’s where Sherlock supposedly lives.”

“I’ve never heard of a ‘North Gower Street’ before.” The cabbie said into the mirror. His eyes widened in recognition, his bushy eyebrows extending to his hairline. “Wait a minute-  
you’re Sherlock Holmes! You’re the one that’s been all over the telly!”

“Yes, I’m the actor who plays him.” Benedict replied in disgust as he continued to shiver. “I can sign you an autograph if you take me to a hotel first.”

“Have you figured out why Moriarty’s back?” The cabbie asked, ignoring Benedict’s offer. “Seeing as he’s the one that made you commit suicide and his story has been all fixed…”

Benedict was incredulous. “How did you know Moriarty’s back? The episode hasn’t been released yet- it won’t be until next year!”

“His face was broadcasted all over the telly this morning. I don’t think I’ll ever look at the words ‘Did you miss me?’ the same way again.”

“What?!” Benedict exclaimed, looking towards Martin in confusion. “Did you pay him to say that?”

Martin shook his head.

“Then how does he know?”

“Like he said- Moriarty’s face was broadcasted over every screen in London today.”

He couldn’t believe it. One thing after the other continued to pile up as evidence that he was absolutely insane. He must be hallucinating. Dreaming. Stoned. Yet he still felt the cold from his coatless walk and everything was so clear and real. It was impossible that the prank was this elaborate- involving even a random cab driver. The producers were always so tight lipped about their secrets, they wouldn’t dare involve someone else, unless he were already part of the show. Benedict peered at the cab driver; at his graying hair and pale, pasty face. He didn’t recognize him. He remained silent, unable to find words to express his confusion.

The drive was surprisingly short as the cab drifted to a stop outside of 221B. The walk must have seemed much longer than it actually was due to the cold. Martin opened the door and stepped out. Freezing air flitted into the cab as Martin held open the door and motioned for Benedict to step out. Benedict remained in place, folding his arms stubbornly over his chest.

“Are you going to get out? He’s letting the cold in.” The cabbie complained.

“I want to go to a hotel.”

“Get out.” Martin ordered. “You’re not going to a hotel, you’re going back to your flat. C’mon, before you freeze.”

“No.”

The cabbie glanced between the two of them, unsure of who to address.

“Do you even have any money on you?” Martin pointed out.

Benedict froze. He hadn’t thought of that. He quickly checked his pockets for a wallet, but they were all empty, besides Sherlock’s phone in his right pocket. He couldn’t believe his idiocy—he should have checked before he left. And took his coat with him. Knowing that he had lost, he slid out of the cab as Martin paid the driver. He brushed past him and made his way back to the apartment, wanting to get out of the cold as quickly as possible.

Martin quickly rejoined him and shut the door behind himself. “Now, why don’t we go back upstairs—“

“Why is it so bloody cold outside?” Benedict complained loudly as he shivered at the foot of the stairs. “It’s only September.”

The lamp on the telephone table emitted a feeble light that cast tall silhouettes across the walls. Benedict watched as Martin’s shadow approached his.

“Um, no.” Martin said, his shadow mouthing along. “It’s boxing day.”

“What?” Benedict asked, not understanding his coworker’s answer.

“Day after Christmas?” Martin said, incredulous that Benedict didn’t know the date. “December twenty-sixth?”

“What!?” Benedict repeated. “No—it’s September first.” He was certain of it. He turned to look at Martin, wondering how he could have gotten the date so far off.

“You should at least be able to remember Christmas.” Martin chided. “Visiting your parents, drugging your entire family,” he paused, his face already reddened from the cold taking  
on a darker shade. “—including my wife. You handed over top secret information to a notorious blackmailer, and you killed a person!”

“What, no, I didn’t actually do any of those things!” Benedict hastily said as Martin fumed. “It’s all just an act!”

“No it’s not! Sherlock, you killed somebody. And if this is how you react, then—”

Benedict cut him off. “I never killed anybody!”

“You’ve created an entirely different reality in denial of the fact that you took a life! Just accept it—” His expression darkened. “You are a murderer.”

“I’m not!” Benedict felt himself floundering, failing to comprehend. Did Martin honestly believe what had happened in the show was reality? His head swirled as he tried to defend himself. “No, you’ve got this all wrong!”

“Then how do you explain it?” Martin squared his jaw and took a menacing step towards him. “Hmm? Did you just magically turn into another person? Or perhaps it’s the other way around—you teleported into another dimension where your ‘show’ is actually real.”

“You’re insane!” Benedict took a step backwards in retreat, his heels bumping against the bottom stair.

“What’s going on?” The woman’s voice came from the top of the stairs.

Martin glanced up, distracted. His features instantly softened when he saw who it was. “Mary,” he said, relieved. The effect of her arrival was instantaneous—almost all hostility that was in the air dissipated.

Benedict turned to see Amanda descend the stairs. Her hands were in the pocket of her bright red jacket and a scarf hugged her neck. She must have only just arrived. His attention was drawn to the large protrusion of her belly.

“Seriously?” Benedict moaned. Amanda was still in costume—baby belly and all. “You’re pregnant. You really didn’t have to do that for me.”

Her nose crinkled in confusion. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Sherlock doesn’t remember who he is.” Martin began to explain, traces of anger lingering in his words. “Killing Magnusson must have make him crazy.”

“He was fine this morning.” Amanda responded as she stopped just a few steps above Benedict.

“Then Moriarty made him crack. He thinks he’s an actor.”

“An actor?” Amanda asked.

Benedict felt claustrophobic, trapped between his two accusers. “Amanda, please don’t join in,” he begged.

“Amanda.” She stated, testing the name. “That’s what you called me over the phone.” She looked past him. “And you’re Martin, right?”

“Supposedly. And his name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”

“Really?” Amanda asked laughingly.

“That’s enough!” Benedict exclaimed, searching for a way out. Both of his exits were blocked by the couple.

“Sorry.” Amanda replied in mock sincerity as the corner of her lips pulled into a grin. “So what are we going to do about you?”

Benedict turned to glance at Martin, who was peering at him closely. He had no way to leave on his own without any money for a cab and hotel. His fate rested in their hands.

“I think he needs to get some rest.” Martin observed. “Maybe he’ll recollect his senses after a good night’s sleep. Who knows how long it’s been since he actually got a full night’s rest.”

“Or eaten a decent meal. Maybe he’s just dehydrated.” Amanda said.

He couldn’t believe that they were talking about him like he wasn’t there. As if he were a child. “I’m perfectly fine!” Benedict defended. “All I need is to be left alone!”

“You’ve been alone all afternoon, and look what’s happened.” Martin pointed at his disheveled appearance.

“It’s never good to be left alone for a long time.” Amanda said. “Especially after what you just experienced.” 

“What I experienced?” Benedict asked as he turned to look up at her. “You’re the ones doing this to me, if you’d just drop your act then everything will be fine.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s always hardest after the first time.”

His mind raced at what her implications could be, until it clicked that she was referring to Magnusson’s death. “Wait, the murder? That was easy—once I killed a man by crushing his skull with my hands. Putting a bullet through a man’s head is simple compared to that.”

Her expression sickened.

“You’re not being serious, are you?” Martin asked from behind him.

“Of course not!” He ran his fingers through his tangled hair, the conversation driving him insane. “I’m an actor—I’ve never actually killed anybody!” He focused his eyes on the scuffed stairs, wishing against all odds that they would get off his back.

Martin and Amanda remained silent. Benedict felt their stares cutting into him. He clenched his fists, wanting more than anything to be allowed to leave.

“Let’s get him back up to the flat.” Amanda offered, not wanting the awkward pause to drag on.

Martin hummed in affirmation. Amanda began walking up the stairs and Benedict obligingly followed after being prodded in the back by Martin. Once in the flat Amanda pulled out a wooden chair from the desk and set it in the center of the room facing the fireplace. She turned to look at Benedict and motioned for him to sit.

“What, am I going to be your client?” Benedict asked in response to Amanda’s expectant look. He glanced at Martin. “Again?”

“Yes.” Martin clipped, folding his arms over his wool jumper as he blocked the exit. “Sit.”

Benedict groaned as he realized that he had no choice in the matter. Amanda smiled and patted the back of the chair. “A taste of your own medicine,” she said, pleased. He wondered what she was talking about; he had never done anything like this to her.

Benedict begrudgingly sat down and received a complimentary pat on the back for his efforts from her small hand. Amanda stepped around Benedict to claim the gray chair that normally belonged to Sherlock. She removed her red jacket and draped it over one of the arms before sinking heavily onto the leathery cushion. 

Satisfied that Benedict wasn’t going to attempt to escape, Martin walked over to the red chair and moved aside the union jack pillow before sitting down. He leaned forward and peered at Benedict with a serious expression. “Why don’t you go ahead and start, Sherlock. Tell us what’s going on.”

“I’m not Sherlock!” Benedict exclaimed. 

“Fine.” Martin clipped. He wearily rubbed his face. “How long do you think this is going to last, Benedict?” Malice was laced into the mentioning of the name.

“Until you have to go home to your kids, apparently.” Benedict sighed and looked at the black bison’s head hanging over the desk. He considered stealing the giant headphones that were draped over the animal—he could use them to tune out all of the ridiculous questions, but then he remembered that they didn’t even work.“Unless the two of you got a babysitter.”

Martin and Amanda shared a blank look at each other.

“I can’t believe that you’d rather be here to torment me.”

“Kids?” Amanda asked, her face twisted into shock. “What kids?”

“Joe and Grace? Your son and daughter?” Benedict was met with open confusion. Neither of them showed any recognition to the names. A cold feeling began to sink into the pit of his stomach. He knew that both of them were excellent actors, but not responding at all to the mentioning of their kids? No one could pull that off, especially not this convincingly.

“We don’t have any kids—besides the fact that she’s pregnant.” Martin said, looking at Amanda for support.

Benedict felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. They honestly believed that they were their characters. But… it was more than that. Things began to fall into place; the ceiling and stairs, the perfect placement of all of the props. The cab driver’s reaction. It was real. 

He was in the world of Sherlock Holmes.

He felt like he was going to be sick. He groaned as he leaned forwards and held his head on his hands.

“Are you alright?” Amanda asked, concerned. 

Mary. That was her name. She was the character, not the actress. His mind felt overwhelmed as he realized that he was sitting by the real Mary Watson,née Morstan. Decidedly not an actress named Amanda Abbington who had two kids. His head began to throb.

“I’ll get him some tea.” Martin—John said. The Doctor John Watson. Benedict had just spent an afternoon with one of the most popular sidekicks in history. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, each thrum causing a painful strain. John left his chair and entered the kitchen, it was a typical attribute of his character; requesting tea when things got too difficult to deal with.

The actor didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t take his thoughts seriously—his line of reasoning was obviously thwarted if he believed that he had been catapulted into the world of fiction. But everything was perfectly explicable if he accepted it.

“Benedict,” Mary said calmly, “what’s going through your mind?”

Impossibilities. He tried to find words that would properly express his thoughts. He peered through his fingers at her. She was sitting on the edge of the seat, her hands in her lap, her arms wrapping around her large stomach.

“You’re actually pregnant,” he finally stated, his voice devoid of any emotion.

“Yes,” she affirmed.

He lifted his head and looked around the flat. It resembled precisely the set back at the studio, but it felt as though it had actually been lived in—inhabited by the most brilliant detective in fictional history.

“I’m in 221B Baker Street,” he said in awe.

“Yes.”

He pointed at the man in the kitchen filling the tea kettle with water. “That’s actually John Watson.” The man who was a soldier, who once had a psychosomatic limp before racing through the rooftops with the great detective, later committing murder to save the detective’s life though he had only known him for a day. The man who experienced all of the same thrills as Sherlock, acting as his assistant and dutifully recording every case. The man who had watched his friend commit suicide only to see him reappear two years later.

“Yes.” She said, praising him for his progression.

He turned to look at her, his hand subconsciously returning to his chest as he thought through her background. “You’ve killed people.”

Perhaps he had taken it a step too far, as the room was cast into stony silence. Mary stared at him with a stoic expression as she pursed her lips. 

“Yes.” She clipped in response.

“Sorry—I”

“No, it’s fine,” she interjected as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her black jeans. “Go on.”

Benedict swallowed. He had just offended a highly trained assassin. He’d be certain to tread lightly, as he was now in the room with killers. “This is all real.” He said in summation.

Her blue eyes peered at him in confusion. “…Yes,” she said after a pause, not entirely certain what his meaning was.

There was a clank as the tea kettle was placed on the stove. John walked back into the room and glanced between the two of them. “So.” He began, sitting down in the uncomfortable chair. He leaned back, entirely at ease. “Is your name still Benedict?”

Benedict’s mouth went dry. It was so strange, seeing his friend across from him, but knowing that he was actually another person entirely. “Yeah,” he finally choked out.

“Bugger. I’d hoped that Mary would’ve had better luck with you.”

Mary proudly sat straighter in her seat. “Actually, he now believes that I’m Mary and you’re John.”

John appeared surprised. “Really?” He turned to look at Benedict. “That’s amazing.”

Benedict had no response. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the whole thing. He stared at the skull resting on the mantelpiece. He wondered how Sherlock had gotten the skull and whose it was. A few people around the set liked to call it Yorick, but he doubted that Sherlock would have Shakespeare references locked up somewhere in his mind palace. 

“Do you still think that you’re an actor?” John continued. “Or is your memory catching up with you?”

“I’m still an actor,” Benedict said dully. “It’s just—now I know I’m in the world of Sherlock.”

“In the world of Sherlock?” Mary repeated, looking at John questioningly.

“That’s what his show is called,” John explained. He addressed Benedict again. “So, you think you jumped through dimensions? One minute living the life as an actor, and the next suddenly in the place of your role?”

Benedict thought for a moment. His eyes skimmed over the insect display case and the knife jammed into a stack of papers above the fireplace. It all felt so surreal, knowing that Sherlock was the one who had placed them there. “I must have passed through while I was dreaming.”

John scoffed. “That’s ridi—” he was cut off by a glare from Mary. He swallowed and took a different approach. “What really happened is that you have been overworked and stressed.” His expression became serious. “You must have cracked and created an entirely different persona in order to escape your problems.”

“What, I’m just some fake person Sherlock created in his mind?” The idea was ludicrous. 

“Look,” John said reasonably, “you drugged your entire family and killed a man yesterday, and today you found out that the man who you saw kill himself two years ago is now alive and everywhere. Seems to me that Sherlock created you as some fantasy of his.”

“My life isn’t just some fantasy!” Benedict objected.

John shrugged. “He probably worked out every detail. It doesn’t surprise me.”

Benedict’s heart raced as he contemplated John’s statement. It felt as though things were closing in on him. The explanation was reasonable—Sherlock’s mind might actually be capable of creating something as thorough as an entire life. But his life? It wasn’t all made up, was it? He suddenly had a difficult time breathing.

“I—we… we switched places!” Benedict said, his chest constricting painfully. 

“Or,” John ventured, “he created an entire backstory that he could fall to when he became trapped. Then all he’d have to do is delete his real history, and presto!” He snapped his fingers, “now he’s just an actor that doesn’t have to deal with anything.”

“No!” Benedict shouted, growing frantic. He stood up and wrenched at his tangled hair. “No, I have a life. I am an actor, and this is just… insane!”

“I agree,” John said as he stood. “This is all bloody insane, and until you figure out that you’re really Sherlock, he won’t return.”

Benedict felt indignant. He was not Sherlock Holmes, he was Benedict Cumberbatch, a BAFTA winning actor from London. He went to a private all boy’s school at Harrow, taught English at a Tibetan Monastery, received his master’s degree at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts and went on to do dozens of successful roles. There was no way that Sherlock could create a life that detailed. He was about to voice his opinions when Mary’s soft voice made him halt, his mouth still open to speak.

“If he’s really Sherlock Holmes, there’s a way we can prove it,” Mary said.

Both men turned their attention to her. Benedict let his mouth close, feeling hopeful. If she had a solution then soon he would prove that he was who he said he was.

She pushed off of the armrest for support as she awkwardly rose to her feet. Once standing she brushed a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you ever been shot?” She asked, addressing Benedict.

“No,” he answered honestly, wondering what she was getting at.

“Then take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“I shot Sherlock. If you are Sherlock, then you’d have a scar.”

Benedict glanced between the two of them as they stared at him expectantly. After realization dawned his fingers began fumbling at the buttons of his tight shirt. His pale chest was revealed as he worried about what he would find. Being shot would explain his mini-heart attack on the stairs...but that had to be from something else. He had been stressed, that’s all.

Once he reached his navel he pulled open the fabric and froze. A small purple scar was etched onto his chest, just beneath his heart. Shaky fingers ran over the coarse skin, confirming the impossible. He sank heavily onto his chair, his hand held over his heart. His mind completely stopped working.

“I’m—I’m not Sherlock,” he defended weakly, all of the facts piled against him.

END OF CHAPTER

**Author's Note:**

> This is only one chapter of the story I’m working on, and it’s still just a rough draft. I promise to post the rest of it by the time Season Four airs. (Grins mischievously, knowing that it isn’t a very adequate time approximation, and then curls in a ball and cries once the implications sink in.)


End file.
